The Quisling Legacy

By Rob Harris

What secret lies entombed in a ship at the bottom of the Norwegian Sea? Why would a neo-Fascist organisation stop at nothing to protect it.
Disturbed by an Oil Rig about to drill over the wreck, the maelstrom is unleashed.
A trail of death and destruction leads from the Arctic Circle to the bank vaults of Zurich. The secret of the wreck and the plan to resurrect Hitler's Reich finally revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Harris
• Release date: Jan 15, 2011

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Extract From the Private Logbook of Leutnant Günther Bauer

Commander of S-Boot 397.

Berlin 17th April 1945

23.00 hours

My visit to the Reich Chancellery this evening took longer than anticipated, so I have only a

limited time to record these few notes before we set sail.

Considering the grim atmosphere prevailing throughout the whole of the Chancellery building and for that matter the whole of Berlin, all Germany even, the Fuhrer was in quite unexpectedly high spirits. He even laughed and joked with his Staff Chiefs and only turned to a more sombre mood after requesting that all excepting myself should leave the immense room that is modestly referred to as the Fuhrer’s office.

With little preamble the Fuhrer issued clear and concise instructions, informing me that I was to carry out a mission of which he termed, perhaps the most important of the whole war. An unexpected and heavy burden placed on my shoulders.

He handed me a package ordering that I carry it to Norway and deliver safely into the possession of Minister President Vidkun Quisling and only him.

The Fuhrer’s parting remark to me was that the whole future of the Thousand Year Reich would depend on the success of my mission. I was to guard the package with my life.

My crew of S-Boot 397 are all on board and we sail for the port of Namsos in the North of Norway within the hour.

I only pray that I can live up to the expectations of my Fuhrer.

The honour is indeed great.

ONE

Shrieking like a banshee, the gale force wind compressed the bright orange survival suit almost flat against Doug McCann's compact body as he worked his way cautiously down the exposed steel ladders of the rig. He struggled to maintain his balance as the huge vessel heaved and rolled beneath his feet. The relentless bombardment of the ocean waves, lashing over the hull pontoons way below him, generated massive vibrations throughout the whole of the gigantic steel structure.

It was already mid April, but the wind blowing from the north east was as cold and as cutting as ever, out there in the middle of the North Sea. The icy blast seemed to threaten it could even cut through to the very core of a man’s soul. But, it was not the weather that McCann needed to fear. There was a far deadlier spectre awaiting him and his crew.

Swinging around the bottom of the ladder and coming perilously close to the rail and the promise of a 60 metre straight drop to the grey, angry sea below, McCann continued on to his destination - the drill deck - just one more level down.

Doug McCann was a stocky, tough and confident man. Despite the limitations of his build he was naturally required to be both tough and confident, because he held the most senior position on the drilling rig Highlander. Not an easy job. A lot rested on Doug McCann's compact, square shoulders. Officially, he was the Barge Master, although he was rarely addressed on the rig by any other title than Boss or Chief. As familiar as even such titles might have appeared to an outsider, there was always just the correct amount of respect tagged on to it - so it never bothered him. Controlled familiarity, he chose to describe it.

Regardless of the grim weather and numerous other pressing matters on his mind, Doug McCann was in fact, in a very buoyant mood. For once he would be the bearer of glad tidings, and nowadays, any good news at all was a rare commodity on a drilling rig operating in the North Sea, or anywhere else on the high seas of the world for that matter. Times were desperately bad in this business.

Finally stepping safely down onto the drill deck, McCann was greeted by a totally different kind of blast. This time he was hit by a direct and relentless explosion of sound. One even louder than the unceasing, howling gale. It was the normal clamour of oil rig activity. The rig doing its job.

Undaunted, Doug pulled himself erect, and looking around the busy work area, immediately spotted his quarry standing amid the action taking place ahead of him in the centre of the drill deck. The unmistakeable, six foot four, muscular frame of Jack Curtis, the rig’s brawny American, Senior Tool-pusher, stood out like a sturdy ship's main mast.

Jack Curtis, standing with his legs set well apart, stabilising his broad frame against the erratic rolling of the rig, was fully occupied in organising his six-man gang as they operated the machinery and equipment employed in heaving up the five metre lengths of steel drill string from the depths of the ocean. Only a few hours before, these very same sections of pipe had finally served their working purpose, guiding the first, newly discovered flow of crude oil up from the vast oil field lying far below the rig.

For the Highlander drilling rig and its crew, the main task had finally been completed. They had successfully achieved what they had been contracted to do. Drill for, and find oil. Job done. As soon as the last section of the drill pipe cleared the seabed, some 70 metres below, the Highlander's divers would go down to temporarily cap the new well. Making ready for the installation of the production platform that would soon be towed to the site and then, with its massive steel legs submerged and settled into place on the bottom, the task of retrieving and processing the new oil would commence. Then the black gold, as it once was called, in more romantic times, would be pumped on its way to the insatiable users on the shore, some 300 hundred kilometres to the west.

Jack Curtis was critically studying the scene before him. He watched intently as each solid pipe section was hoisted up and hosed down, spraying the drilling platform with a mixture of oil, mud and sand, before being finally pulled away for stacking in the racks located on the side of the deck; ready for use on the next job. The rattle of chain and whine of motors was deafening, but at least it was the clangour of action - of progress - of work underway - much needed work and far preferable to the whine of the gale howling incessantly around them.

Doug hesitated for a second as he studied, with more than a little admiration, the big man going about his work, and waited for him to relax for a second and take a few paces back from the job. What Doug had to say was important but so was the lifting of the drill string. The sooner that was accomplished the sooner they could be on their way.

Totally unaware of Doug's presence on the drill deck, Jack Curtis continued overseeing the operation going on in front of him, and not without some pride, observed the strenuous efforts of his dedicated, hard working crew. Every single man on the team, Jack knew and treated almost like a brother. That's the way it was in this tough business. One looked out for the boys and more generally than not they looked out for you. It was a work ethic that had followed him through most of his adult life.

Studying the growing pile of steel pipes, Jack wondered when those vital sections would be needed again. They all knew it was the end of a contract and nobody had the slightest idea when or even if another one was going to come along. Times were really bad. Jack was dreading the announcement that he would soon probably have to deliver to the guys - accompanied no doubt by their signing off documents. End of contract. End of job. Start of? Well, no good answer to that question.

'Okay lads, just four more strings to pull and that’s it, we’re done,' Jack called out, competing with the clash of steel against steel and the persistent whine of the wind tormenting around the deck.

Doug worked his way to where Jack stood and touched him lightly on the arm.

'Nearly finished then, Jack?' Doug shouted, cupping a hand to his mouth to shield against the din.

Swinging around, the Big Yank, as he was affectionately known by all on the rig, registered his surprise at discovering the Barge Master standing at his side.

What was the Boss doing down on the drill deck in person at this time of day? Trouble of some description, Jack assumed.

'Oh. Hi Chief,' Jack yelled back above the noise. 'Yeh, just about done. Another few strings,' he said waving proudly at the rising pile of steel tubes being stacked in the frame at the side of the deck. 'So what brings the Barge Master down here? Not quite the weather for an afternoon stroll. You slumming or something?' Jack questioned, a broad grin spreading over his rugged features which easily cancelled out any note of disrespect in his voice.

'Oh no Jack, make no mistake, this is your domain. You look after things down here and I take care of things up there,' Doug said raising an arm upward, indicating the Rig Control Room towering way above them. 'And occasionally the twain shall meet.’

Not exactly the truth, because Doug McCann was responsible for every single item on the rig. Anything from a wing nut to a hundred and ten kilo tool-pusher.

'So to what exactly do we owe this honour then?' Jack asked again, but by now, he had recognised the glint in Doug McCann's eye and the smile creasing the little man's rugged face. Jack's instincts kicked in immediately. The Boss was going to brighten the day. Jack knew it for certain!

'I thought you might be interested to know, I just received a signal from the top, the head office in Aberdeen. Good news. As soon as we tie things up here, we’re on our way to a new location. North of 64 degrees. Virgin oil Jack and a brand new two year contract with none other than Unicorp Oil.'

'That’s tremendous news, Doug.' Jack made no attempt to disguise his elation. In fact, he barely restrained himself from encasing the Barge Master in a huge bear hug.

'North of Latitude 64 eh?' Jack raised his voice above the noise. A more serious, questioning tone this time. 'So the Norwegian Authorities are letting us go up there at last? Backing off on the environmental restrictions.'

'Looks like it. No longer out of bounds. Oil is money, Jack and money talks.'

'As soon as we get these last strings up, I’ll inform the lads,' Jack said. 'There’s going to be a lot of smiling faces today. No dole queues waiting for these guys this time. You’ve just got yourself a bunch of very happy men.'

'So, Mr Senior Tool-pusher,' Doug proclaimed in a voice of mock authority, 'when all these bits are up and washed and secured, please advise the Control Room, and we shall get those anchors lifted off the sea bed and be on our way. Just waiting on you now, Jack.'

By mid afternoon the wind had dropped to force four, a gentle breeze by North Sea standards. The waves moderating and the white horses diminished to just lightly tipped foam rollers. On the other hand the temperature was going nowhere, the needle still hovering around 4 degrees C and the unrelenting wind ensuring that it was still going to feel more like zero.

Doug McCann decided that it was safe to lift the anchors from the sea bed and just hold the rig in position using the eight four thousand horsepower, propeller thrusters. The state of the art, satellite controlled, dynamic positioning system - DP for short - would do the rest. All rested now on Big Jack and his team, finishing off, three decks below.

Jack relayed the all clear at just after three o’clock when the PA system crackled into life.

'All done and stowed on the drill deck.' Jack’s broad American accent, mingling with just a hint of recently acquired Scottish brogue, emitted joyfully from the speakers and echoed around the rig for all to hear, 'So lift them up, get them out and roll them on…Rawhide…Yeehaaa.'

Doug lifted his own hand microphone and keyed the send button.

'Take it easy cowboy we’re on our way.'

The fun was over - time to move the Highlander out.

'Stand-by main motors,' Doug ordered, waiting just a second for the affirmative acknowledgement from his Senior Engineer, Mike Holden sat at his usual position in front of the machinery control panel, just a few feet away.

'All systems ready,' Mike confirmed.

Doug gave the order. 'Full ahead all. Course 015.'

Time of departure - 15.24 hours.

Time remaining for Highlander and her crew - 23 hours.

TWO

The news that Highlander was in trouble on the new field location travelled like wild fire to the company head office of Highland Drilling Limited in Aberdeen. The hard facts landing with a resounding thump on the desk of Phil Williams, the base Office Manager, barely three hours after Highlander had arrived at her new co-ordinates.

Right in the centre of a drilling sector designated Block Number 6042, was the place where Highlander had run into trouble. A position on the map where the bleak North Sea ends and the even bleaker Norwegian Sea begins, and continues its way in ice-cold resolution up into the hostile waters of the Arctic Ocean.

Couldn't have happened at a worse time, in a worse place, thought Phil Williams, and wasting no time at all, had radioed the Rig directly. Only to be presented with the full, dismal details from a very concerned Doug McCann. The news was bad, really bad. The last thing the company needed at this particular point in time. Not that it would have been greeted with open arms at any other time for that matter.

Phil hardly needed to remind himself that things had been running pretty much low key at the Aberdeen Head Office for some time now. Everything in the industry was on a downer, with what appeared to be no end in sight. Then a glimmer of hope had risen on the horizon, from a business point of view that is. At last, things had started to look up for the company that owned and operated twelve mobile semi-submersible, deep sea, offshore drilling rigs, in a theatre of operation that spanned practically the whole world. Concern of threatened lay-offs, asset selling and even talk of receivership had hung over the company for the past eighteen months.

Many of their fleet of floating drilling rigs were just laid-up in shallow waters around the globe. Doing nothing and earning nothing as the price of a barrel of oil scraped along the bottom of the international energy market. Put simply, it was costing more to get the stuff out from under the depths of the sea, than it did to sell it on to the less thirsty consumer market.

Then, thankfully, signs of a slight change for the better.

Marginal stability in the Middle East - if one discounted the war in Iraq, the conflict between Israel and Palestine and the fight against global terrorism and warming - had started to push the price of oil back up to a feasible commercial level.

In this rejuvenated, economic environment however, rig operators like Highland Drilling were still being forced to chase and fight for the few viable commercial contracts becoming available. But, slim though they were, the opportunities were definitely there, and the Highland Drilling Company was doing its fair share of the hard chasing, and at last, appeared to be starting to get lucky. Or so it seemed until this latest news from Highlander.

Phil Williams scanned the sheet with the notes he had made during his grim conversation with Doug McCann on the satellite connection, that morning.

The implications were just unthinkable. The outcome could be disastrous and this was not the least of Phil's worries. The fact that this news had still to be relayed to the Offshore Operations Manager, Jim Bowen, in his office down the corridor, had to be taken into account.

Phil was well aware that sixty year old Bowen was a devotee of the old school. The one from where many of his generation seemed to take morbid delight in persistently reminding everyone and anyone, particularly their junior associates that they had graduated from the school of ‘hard knocks’ - with honours mind you. Then, as Bowen put it, had fought their way up from rags to tailored stitches, crawling over broken glass and living off their wits and the ability to suffer fools long enough to find a good excuse to sack ‘em. Whoever those poor unfortunate fools might currently happen to be.

Clutching in one hand the original, official single page print-out received from the Highlander and in the other, his own scribbled notes, Phil headed for Bowen’s office along the corridor, trying to ignore the additional fact that his boss was also a member of the fraternity that subscribed wholeheartedly to the philosophy, where appropriate, of shooting the messenger.

'Shit, Phil – what the hell’s going on out there?'

Bowen had read the message from Highlander and was, to put it mildly, seething. His face had turned a deeper shade of red than usual as he fired the question like a personal missile at his junior manager. The implications to his own professional wellbeing, suddenly very much uppermost in his mind. Trouble like this could easily wreck what was left of Bowen's own career. Bowen wasn't alone in realising that in the cold light of day; he was long past his sell by date and just when things seemed to be improving this shit had to be hurled at his particular fan.

'What does this mean – an obstruction?' Bowen rasped, angrily stabbing a smoke yellowed finger at the document lying on the desk top in front of him. 'Have you spoken to them out there?'

'Just got off the radio phone. I contacted them as soon as I received the alert. Doug McCann explained the situation to me.' Phil was nervously building up to relate the whole sad story to his unhappy boss.

'I didn’t ask if you had a nice chat with them, I asked you what the bloody obstruction is.'

'It’s a wreck, a ship. Before they could even get the anchors out on the station, the rig's divers went down to carry out the usual preliminary bottom survey. Didn’t take them long to discover a sunken ship of some sort right beneath them. Directly on the primary drill line in fact.'

'God almighty,' Bowen left no doubt of the seriousness of the situation – for all of them – those on the rig and on the shore. 'So, can it be moved, this derelict heap of shit?'

'Doug McCann says it’s a big mass of metal but he thinks it may be possible to shift it.'

'So what’s everybody waiting for? Shift the god damned thing for Christ’s sake'

'Apparently, it’s not going to be so easy.' Things were not getting any easier for Phil Williams either; a layer of sweat already coated his face and a single bead had succeeded in making a tortuous trail down as far as his shirt collar.

'Tell me,' demanded Bowen.

'The Norwegian Maritime Directorate wants to investigate the matter.'

'Bloody investigate? I thought we’d already got the all clear from the Norwegian Authorities to test drill up on that location.'

'Apparently they had no knowledge of any obstruction anywhere in that area. Certainly no navigational hazard of any significance had been posted. Charts are all clear.'

'So how do they propose to fix it?'

'They want to survey the site and then arrange for a floating heavy lift vessel to come in and remove the wreck.'

'Well they'd better pull their fingers out. If we don't start drilling within forty-eight hours our contract with Unicorp Oil is out the fucking window. And somebody is going to pay for this - dearly!'

THREE

It was already getting light at 4am in the port of Stavanger on the west coast of Norway, when a Volvo swung into the deserted car park outside the offices of the Norwegian Maritime Authority.

The driver was Nils Olsen, a senior official of the organisation that operated out of the building and totally controlled all marine activity in the seas around the seemingly endless 22,000 kilometre long coastline of Norway.

What brought Nils Olsen to the offices at this ungodly hour, had very much to do with what was currently taking place out in those same deep waters, and the disastrous consequences that seemed destined to result.

Olsen left the car, forgetting to lock it and walked hurriedly to the main office entrance where, with trembling fingers, he punched in his security pass code and entered the building.

Two minutes later he was at his desk on the vacated third floor. Pushing aside a pile of documents to gain access to the telephone, and with fingers still shaking, he hit the keys and waited. The usual clicking sounds of the transmission took a few seconds before contact was made, and he heard the ringing at the other end, and then somebody picked up.

'Ja?' the voice was German - the accent rasping and heavy with interrupted sleep.

'Otto, it’s me Nils. There’s trouble…' Olsen spoke in English the formal language agreed to be used by the group.

'It is most foolish of you to make contact like this, Olsen, outside the approved procedures.'

Ignoring the rebuke, and despite the rapid pounding of his heart inside his chest and the uncontrolled gasps for air, Olsen carried on. It sounded to the German at the other end as if Olsen was recovering from the effects of a hundred-metre dash.

'I know this is not the agreed procedure but it is important.’ Another intake of breath then he blurted it out. 'A rig has gone up to drill in block 6204.'

The line remained silent.

'Otto, did you hear what I said?'

Further seconds passed before Otto Klensch replied.

'Ja, ja. I hear you, but I just do not know how this can possibly be? It was our clear understanding that the Norwegian Oil Directorate and the Maritime Authority would veto all requests to drill for oil above the 62nd Parallel. All that, protect the environment nonsense that nevertheless served our purpose perfectly. It was you Nils who was supposed to be in a position to ensure that this scenario could never happen. Not before we had finished up there anyway.'

'I know, Otto,' the phone in Olsen's damp palm shook uncontrollably. 'And I am afraid that's not all.'

'Tell me.'

'They’ve found the ship. They were positioned to drill right above it. Their divers discovered her, Otto.'

'Mein Gott! Divers? Divers were down there? You fool Olsen. You must terminate this operation at once.'

'It’s too late Otto. It is out of my hands.'

Another long silence dragged by before Otto Klensch growled one last time into the phone.

'Well Nils, it’s not out of my hands.'

Nils Olsen flinched as he heard the receiver at the other end, clatter back into its cradle.

FOUR

At Block 6204 in the Norwegian Sea, daybreak brought a temporary respite in the weather. The wind dropped, and even the sun deemed to spread a little of its light and warmth over the grey expanse of ocean.

Conditions would have been ideal for drilling. No such luck for Doug McCann and his crew though.

Before they could even secure the rig by letting out the eight massive anchors, they had to be assured that the wreck lying in the mud some 70 metres beneath them on the seabed, although of no immediate threat, would soon be moved out of their way.

Consequently, the whole Rig was strangely silent, apart from the dull rumble of the diesel generators deep below decks and the normal sounds of the crew moving around inside the accommodation block. Stark contrast indeed to the usual racket generated by the combined everyday activities of a drilling rig running in full operation.

The silence boded well for nobody.

High up in the Control Room however, things appeared to be going on much as normal. The guys in the vessel's nerve centre still had the crucial task of maintaining the stability and positioning of the Rig. Holding the massive floating structure in position with the powerful propulsion motors coupled to the huge five bladed bronze propellers.

It was now a waiting game.

On to this scene Jack Curtis lumbered. The big fellow was, unusually for him, unoccupied. At this early stage in any contract, Jack and his team of Roughnecks would have already sunk a dozen or more lengths of drill string, deep into the seabed. Signalling the preliminary phase of the quest for oil. But despite the overshadowing problem and having to put everything on hold, Jack was in quite high spirits. In addition to the new contract, the big man had a more personal reason for feeling good.

'Morning all,' he greeted Doug and his Control Room brigade. 'Nice day for a vacation on a five star island in the Norwegian Sea.'

'Very funny, Jack,' snapped Engineer Mike Holden from his control panel position. Mike was just as busy as always. He carried the full responsibility for the smooth running of all the machinery on the rig, whether they were in the process of drilling or not. 'You might be on holiday, Jack,' the Engineer continued, a slight hint of humour taking the edge out of his initial response. Like most of the crew, he got on well with the big Yank. 'But some of us have still got work to do.'

'Oh, poor you,' Jack replied, landing a friendly pat on the Engineer’s shoulder, as he passed by, heading across the deck to where Doug McCann was peering out through the wide front screen windows.

'How’s it going, Chief?'

'Not so good Jack. We’ve got a fair old obstruction under us.' Doug spoke without taking his eyes off the desolate expanse of grey sea outside, extending away into the light mist and beyond to the distant horizon. 'I can’t see you starting any drilling until we get the damn thing shifted. And the worst of it is they’re going berserk back at HQ in Aberdeen.'

'I’ll bet they are,' Jack agreed grimly. 'So what’s the plan?'

Doug turned from the window to face his Senior Toolpusher.

'The Norwegian Authorities are sending us some assistance. A Diving Support Vessel, with heavy lift capability. A really big bastard by all accounts. She’s called the Sea Hawk."

'Sounds good. So what’s this big bastard going to do when she gets up here?' Jack queried.

'Apparently, the plan is to break the wreck up into small manageable pieces and then lift the bits out of our way.'

'And how do they propose to acquire these small manageable pieces?'Jack enquired again, this time a certain note of scepticism creeping into his voice.

'Big bang theory.'

'You mean blow the thing up? Jesus, what about us?'

'It would appear that we will be expected to pull off location, a safe distance.'

'I suppose they know what they’re doing,' Jack muttered, still not totally convinced. Jack Curtis knew a thing or two about explosives. 'How long is all this supposed to take, anyway? I was hoping to get a few strings down before I go on leave. I’m off on Wednesday you know. As long as the weather stays calm enough for the chopper to fly out here and back, that is. Pete Simmons is on roster. He's coming out to relieve me. This is one trip home that I am afraid I just can’t miss, Chief.'

Doug raised his eyebrows in surprise, for an instant. Then a broad grin of understanding wrinkled across his features. He remembered precisely what the big fellow was referring to.

'Oh yes, I’d almost forgotten. You’re about to become a new Daddy. How is Jean? When’s the big day?'

'It's not a wedding, Chief. The parents don't actually fix the date in these cases, you know.' Jack issued a friendly reprimand. 'Any time now. She’s fine though. Moves around a bit like a barge in full ballast but no, everything’s going good. We just want it to hurry up and happen.'

'I am sure you do, Jack. If there’s anything I can do to help…'

'Actually, I would like to get in a radio telephone call to the mainland.